the crone

opening the door to ideas

Talking with a friend.

I realised that life is a series of flaky compromises — a bit like a bland baklava.

What’s For Afters?

Dirty pan, mucky plates
Not wiped clean
In a mess
Smelly, sticky, ugly to see
Cold, coagulated vomitus
Thrown up and thrown away

Half munched, half crunched
Chewed knobs of gristle, cold lumps of fat
Half gnawed stomach contents in your eyes
Chew them
Swallow them
Lick your lips and smile through sick

Go back for seconds
Go on!
Force it down
And then go back for more.

When does this end?
When Will There Be Dessert?

Only when your plate is empty
Licked clean, wiped shiny

So swallow every piece of shit
In the hope of something sweet

If you still have the appetite for it by then.


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